Nocturn
by Absolute Alcohol
Summary: At these times, therefore, let us offer praise to our Creator for the judgements of His justice. [BaralaiGippal]


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Nocturn  


  
\Noc"turn\, n. [F. nocturne, fr. L. nocturnus. See Nocturnal, and cf. Nocturne.]   
1. An office of devotion, or act of religious service, by night.   
2. Any of the three canonical divisions of the office of matins.  


  
  
  
  
***  
  


  
  
Gippal was never completely sure why Baralai had chosen to rejoin the ranks of Yevon after being a Crimson Squad candidate. He had thought about the possible reasons a lot when he'd first found out that his friend was Praetor, and reached no conclusions but that Bevelle was Baralai's home, and Yevon was something he had known since early childhood. After all, Gippal had found comfort in the familiarity of wires and machina parts – there was no reason for it to be such a strange choice.   
  
But as things had happened, Gippal had begun to understand. Baralai had wanted information on what that cave had contained, so he had headed straight for the source – what other use were Seymour and Kinoc to him? – and found the whole experience cushioned with the bonuses of power and respect. Even Gippal himself may have been swayed by such things, had he ever been offered them; but working as a mechanic had always been simple enough, with few choices.   
  
So, understanding Baralai a fraction more, Gippal had followed him to the Farplane.   
  
And even since then, he had felt the strain of not knowing what to say to Baralai, not knowing the proper timing for such a busy, respected man, when he was used to the fractionally awkward boy.   
  
It was strange enough, feeling like he didn't know the other man anymore; but there was a reason behind it, and the simple fact was that Baralai had changed and Gippal couldn't understand.   
  
  


  
  
***   
  
  


  
"You're sure?"   
  
Sighing, Gippal threw his hands up into the air and rolled his eyes, exaggerated gestures used for years as a way to divert attention from his eyes. It was a perfected technique, a habit he had grown as a sort of protection from Yevon; ironic, that he was now at the heart of New Yevon headquarters, eating away at the Praetor's precious time. "Yes, I'm sure," Gippal replied, sighing again, just for effect. "I told you, I'm here delivering some machina and I don't fancy returning right away, so-"   
  
"Ah." A look of sudden comprehension swept across Baralai's calm face. "A diversion?" His voice was undyingly matter-of-fact, as though the implication that Gippal was using him to waste time wasn't an insult in the very slightest.   
  
"No! No. Look, that's not it at all, you know I-"   
  
"So how long will you be staying for?" the other man asked, raising one eyebrow with polite curiosity. Honestly, Gippal could have sworn that these interruptions had been choreographed for just such a visit, a conspiracy to cause him discomfort and make him look like an idiot. Couldn't he just get a sentence out, deliver the message he had intended to give and leave the plainly irritable Praetor to his work?   
  
"E lysa du caa oui vun ouin pendrtyo, ghilgmarayt! (I came to see you for your birthday, knucklehead!)" To illustrate his foreign point, Gippal pressed one fist jokingly against his own head, adopting a look of grave seriousness. "So shut up."   
  
Baralai seemed momentarily distracted – his lips curled into a reflexive smile – but as soon as the positive change had appeared, it had vanished again in much the same way. "Gippal, please, you know I don't speak Al Bhed."   
  
The blond pushed away from the wall he was leaning against, grinning lazily and running one hand through his hair. "That's half the fun, Praetor. I wouldn't enjoy this language quite so much if I couldn't use it to aggravate you." The grin stayed firmly in place, a signal as to how seriously the older man should take the things he said – 'not very' was the message scribbled out by such a curve of his lips.   
  
Gippal remembered Baralai's question, and frowned slightly in thought. "I'm not sure. How long is a piece of string?" he mused, placing one hand carefully on his hip and tilting his head. "My men can take care of themselves, so I guess it comes down to how long you can stand to keep me here for. And judging by your current mood, then…" He drew one finger across his neck and grimaced, as though in great pain, before letting out a small snort of laughter.   
  
Baralai sighed and shook his head, leaning his chin on one hand. "I apologise if I've seemed… out of sorts." He shrugged quickly and carried on, effectively cutting off any protest Gippal could have made. "But there's a huge workload for me – it's not easy, running an organisation as huge as this – and other people desire my time."   
  
It really was enough to make Gippal back off, seeing Baralai looking so unashamedly apologetic; and tired. So, with a small bow, he placed a hand on the doorknob and twisted it, giving the older man a mock salute with one hand and pulling with the other. "That's fine," he admitted, flashing Baralai a reassuring smile. "I'll leave you to it, as long as you promise to dedicate some of your valuable time to me tomorrow."   
  
Gippal left without an answer, not sure what he had expected either way, and swung the door closed with a gentle click. Baralai gazed at it as though he expected it to pop open again, as though the Al Bhed would peek in and exclaim, "Gotcha!" But nothing happened, and he swiftly returned his attention back to his work.   


  
  
***   
  


  
  
If Gippal had had words to describe how bored he felt, they would have been scribbled across all four walls in great, varying detail long ago. As it was, there were none, so he resorted to slouching easily in one of Baralai's fancy, high-backed chairs, his legs thrown haphazardly across one of its arms.   
  
It seemed that the Praetor was doing something hideously important: his brow was creased in concentration while his hand flew from one end of the desk to the other, covering the paper with carefully learned promises. Gippal wondered what they could be, and what work it was that Baralai couldn't bring himself to leave.   
  
"Come on," he prompted, blinking furiously and craning his neck to stare at his friend. "How much paperwork do you do, anyway? Can't we go shout at some monks for peeping in on the nuns' showers? Can't you fire that big guy over there? Can't we get out of here and do something that isn't-"   
  
"No."   
  
Baralai didn't bother to look up, he just kept scratching away at the same piece of paper, his attention still seemingly unbroken. One of the windows was open a few inches, and the breeze ruffled his hair every now and again: some of it would slowly sway, a silent dirge, while tiny little bits of it threw themselves around like seaweed caught in a violent tide.   
  
And Gippal knew he was starting to feel the deeply engulfing calm of Bevelle. Comparing his friend's hair to a flower – an especially wet, weedy flower – was hardly the best of signs.   
  
"…Are you done yet?" he asked, though he knew what the answer would be, and just how straightforward. It was fun to tease Baralai, try and capture his attention for a minute rather than have him scratch-scratching endlessly away at important documents as though he were completely alone. "I really, really want to-"   
  
"No."   
  
Gippal groaned with exasperation, throwing his arms into the air and letting his head fall back and his eye close. When he had suggested that they spend time together the previous night, he hadn't imagined stacks of paper, the sounds of laughing monks and the top of Baralai's head. He had thought it would involve more time outdoors, or at least a visit to the secret passage underneath the grand, boringly grand, city. But now he was here, Gippal would have to endure it.   
  
He should definitely have stayed in bed; at least then he would be better equipped to deal with the pleasant sunshine and sleep-inducing sensation of the breeze against his face. Falling asleep wouldn't be such a bad idea, Gippal thought, if he had a more convenient place to do it. The only comfortable thing in the room seemed to be the desk, and that was currently occupied with the subject of his irritation.   
  
"Baralai." Gippal pulled himself upright and swung his legs around, so that he was sitting on the chair properly. "You do know what today is, don't you? Tell me you haven't forgotten your own twenty first birthday."   
  
Finally, Baralai stopped scribbling and lifted his head, face unreadable. "Of course I haven't forgotten." He looked down at the desk, shuffled some papers, and straightened his back. "But what do you propose we do about it? It's too short notice to have a party, and besides, I couldn't slip away from work."   
  
Gippal thought for a few seconds, running quickly through any practical ideas. They could always… but no, that would take time, and the sun was already bleeding its colours into the horizon. In fact, the only idea he had that would make sense and be fun was something Baralai would definitely object to.   
  
"Well," Gippal began, forcing a grin from his face, "there is something we could do to celebrate, but it'd mean sneaking out. And I know how much you'd hate that." He watched Baralai's expression with interest, waiting for the barrage of protests that were sure to come – he was far too busy to sneak off on one of the Al Bhed's harebrained schemes, Gippal would be irresponsible and get them locked up for the night, having a birthday celebration wasn't a big deal. 

But instead, the blond heard Baralai heave a sigh, and then: "All right. Why not?" 

***


End file.
